


Jealousy Is Green

by Klepto_Crow



Category: Mystery Skulls Animated
Genre: ???'s original name will be Mordred, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author is unreliable, Diverges after Hellbent, Fluff and Angst, I Tried, Jealousy, My First Fanfic, No Beta, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Arthur, Rating May Change, Slow To Update, Tags Are Hard, and low writers confidence, don't count on it though, figured the internet would give good criticism, i have school, i swear i love him, maybe smut later?, seriously, some uncomfortable amounts of stalking, stalking in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21729730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klepto_Crow/pseuds/Klepto_Crow
Summary: When Arthur imagined Lewis' return it was always a magnificent affair. He imagined grand reunions and unbridled joy. He imagined them all coming back together, friends reunited once more. He imagined a lot of crying and hugging.Well... Lewis was back now. And Arthur was right about one thing-he's been doing a lot of crying.Arthur now spends his days managing an influx of disjointed memories, skirting around Lewis, and working at his uncle's shop. Which is fine!  Wracked with guilt from returning memories, the least he felt he could do was let Lewis have his peace. Have that future with Vivi that Arthur nearly ended. Even if that future didn't include him. Even if his heart ached for it. He didn't deserve them and he knew it.Now, if only the man with the hauntingly familiar green eyes would leave him alone.
Relationships: Arthur & Lance (Mystery Skulls Animated), Arthur & Mystery (Mystery Skulls Animated), Arthur/??? (one-sided), Arthur/Lewis (Mystery Skulls Animated), Arthur/Lewis/Vivi (Mystery Skulls Animated), Arthur/Vivi (Mystery Skulls Animated)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 364





	1. Roadside Musings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello readers! I'm the Klepto_Crow and I've been writing personal fanfiction for a long time, but I've never been able to tell if they were any good... So! I had reasoned that by posting my works online through an established platform I would be able to receive some insight into how I'm doing!  
> This is my first work, both in the fandom and on AO3, so I ask that only constructive criticism be given please. ヽ(〃＾▽＾〃)ﾉ Anyways, a great big thank you to anyone who has braved my bumbling attempt at a fanfic! I hope you enjoy!

The sound of scuttling followed a trail of disturbed grass near the edge of Tempo City. Night had fallen hours ago, the waxing moon high, obscured by dark, billowing clouds. Yet, in spite of the poor lighting, the faintest outline of something unnatural could be caught peeking from untamed vegetation. Its movements were awkward, shuffling about on five stubby appendages and lurching forwards at minute intervals. 

Any nearby soul would have taken pity on this creature, thinking it an injured animal and moving to help. Of course, any nearby soul would have also immediately fainted in horror. Afterall, it wasn’t often that someone sighted upon the dripping form of an autonomous,  _ green _ ,  **_dismembered_ ** arm. Not even taking into account the eye nestled in its palm, black sclera accentuating the glow of its poison-green iris. 

Fortunately, no one did pass by and the arm continued on undisturbed.  It- _ he _ - **Mordred** was free. After centuries locked in an isolated cave with nothing but stalagmites and fog for company, he was  _ free _ . The wench who imprisoned him was long dead, he was sure, but oh how he longed to enact some form of revenge. 

Mordred considers himself a philocalist, a lover of beauty, and it is this trait which led to his downfall. He remembers her essence, a brilliant yellow soul, shining like a beacon amongst crowds of dull commoners. Unlike her fellow field worker, dressed in muted greens and browns, she wore bright yellow dresses with orange stitching and lacey white accents. That sunshine yellow dress hugged a slim figure, petite and pale, but holding a hidden strength. Her hair like spun gold, interrupted only by the streak of black locks diverging from just above her forehead. Her lips were full, bow-shaped, button nose upturned and eyebrows like hearts, but her eyes were what drew him in. Amber, which reflected the light of dawn when she turned just so. Amber full of life and love and adventure. The townspeople called her Amelia, she was beautiful, and Mordred wanted her. 

He could not have known, blinded by his hubris and sure of his ability to corrupt her, that she was no normal villager. He could not have known that the sunshine yellow beauty he set his sights upon, who collected flowers and herbs in the forest, who hummed nursery rhymes and lullabies while working, would be his downfall. 

She led him through the forest one partly cloudy day and babbled about an interesting cave she’d found. He listened to her absently, mentally listing how many people knew they were out there and reminding himself to kill them later. So deep was he in his plotting that he did not notice when her eyes began to glint, nor when she stopped following him towards the cave. By the time he realized her absence by his side she had cast her ward. 

A witch. A  _ smart _ witch, he thought, as he studied the thorough warding designed to contain him. Nevertheless, Mordred, consumed with hubris, remained unconcerned. As an ancient and high ranking demon, Mordred retained the ability to possess a host. Obviously, then, the next hapless soul to enter his cave would be his ride out of it.   
  


Hundreds of years passed, yet each pathetic human who dared enter Mordreds’ cave, proved useless, ejecting him violently upon reaching the cave’s entrance. He began to despair, believing he may never escape his entrapment. That is, until they came along.

Three curious children, for they were all children to him, stepped foot into his humble abode. A brief glance at the purple and blue souls seemed promising enough, but he was quickly taken in by the brilliant glow of yellow just behind them. Why, the last time he had seen a soul so bright had been… but it couldn’t be. Dismissing the vague familiarity for now, he decidedly marked the little sunflower as his next host. 

The possession itself was interesting. His new host was an emotional mess, his tumultuous feelings regarding the other two unsettling his soul enough to provide an opening. Staying inside, however, proved much more difficult. While previous hosts had put up some resistance against him, those were more skirmishes than outright fights. This one gave him a **battle** , raising his anticipation that this might be the host to end his captivity. The sunflower fought against him with all the strength and desperation of a lone warrior. Against a lesser demon, he might have even won! Unfortunately for him, Mordred was no lesser demon. 

Exhilarated from both the fight and the sensation of having a host, Mordred moved his vision upwards. His sunflower had followed purple up the left path, separating them from the blue one. He listened to the internal screaming of his host, and felt the creepings of a smile on half of his face.

Well...It had been a while since he had had any fun. All it took was a little push, amidst the anguished cries of his host, and purple was falling down, down, down. And then everything went wrong.

Silently, Mordred cursed the mangy mutt which tore him from his sunflower. He hadn’t payed the dog any attention in the cave, hadn’t even noticed him, and he was paying for it. Now here he stood, forced to subsist on one limb, a decrepit black armband hanging from his incomplete form. 

The armband wasn’t completely useless though. Since his messy get away Mordred has made good use of the tattered fabric, infused as it was with the golden essence of his host, to track the sunflowers’ whereabouts. A task easier said than done when the sunflower kept moving and Mordred’s only form of transportation consisted of five fingers. Finally, for the last four or so months ( _ Time became difficult to track after the first few centuries _ ) his host has settled into a consistent life-style. He has been watching his sunflower for the past week to think over his approach.

So far, his new plan consisted of reclaiming his host and taking over  _ completely _ this time, before killing the mutt. Bonus points if there were witnesses to dispose of along the way. Afterwards, he would live out the rest of his life  _ above ground _ and catch up on old habits. Not that he hadn’t been living above ground, per say. He may have been reduced to a dismembered limb, but being able to see the outside world had… calmed him down some, for lack of a better phrase. 

He could almost say that he was content, absently wishing for something to kill, but content. The outside world had changed much since he had last seen it. Last he remembered of Earth the humans had barely established village settlements, but looking down on various cities now, it was almost like the humans had stolen the stars from the sky and brought them down to earth. Each host he occupied, however briefly, contributed to his information of the outside world through memories, so he could say with absolute certainty that this was not true. Still, it was enchanting. 

He shook himself of his disgusting sentiments. Another thing which had come from invading the sunflower was an onslaught of emotions he had long dispensed himself of. The sooner he rejoined the rest of his host the sooner he could work on subduing these emotions. 

With that in mind, he wandered into the open road, bound for Kingsman Mechanics, and failed to notice the pair of headlights bearing down on him.

  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur isn't doing too well and a stranger overstays his welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on winter break for a while so I took the time to write up the next chapter! Writing Arthur is hard to do without straying from his character, and I swear I've reread this section about eight times, but I've been using the MSA Wiki (Which is really cool! Check it out!) as a guide. Again, constructive criticism is welcome and I hope you all enjoy! I hope I did this well (๑ ˊ͈ ᐞ ˋ͈ )ƅ̋

No matter what Uncle Lance says, he is not “hiding.” He is… practicing strategic avoidance! Yes! His therapist told him that facing your fears is important, but that avoiding avoidable suffering is just as important, if not more so. Or something like that. Uncle Lance couldn’t blame him for acting on the advice of his therapist. Speaking of his therapist, he should call her soon… 

Publicly, Dr. Fernsby is a professional psychologist, a woman of high education and ample experience. Arthur knows her as Irene, his ever patient, easygoing friend and personal lifesaver. Unknown to the public, Dr. Fernsby is one of very few people _alive_ who are both in-the-know about the supernatural and not active hunters. Her father was a hunter in North America who taught her all there was to know about the supernatural and how to defend herself, but also allowed her to pursue a career of her own choosing. He saw her graduate from the University of California with a doctorate in psychology before succumbing to a “work accident.” Yet, rather than seek revenge, Irene dedicated herself to helping others recover from situations like hers. She soon gained a shining reputation among the supernatural community and amassed a sprawling network.

A network which, as it were, includes Vivi’s mysterious boss. Arthur thanks the stars everyday that he chanced the Tome Tomb all those months ago, enabling Vivi’s oddly cryptic boss to pull him aside, telling him only to _call when you need and listen_. And after everything that’s happened with the cave, searching for Lewis, running from a wraith, discovering the wraith _is_ Lewis, and his subsequent near death experience, Arthur listens to his therapist like a teenage rebel listens to metal. 

Even more so now than ever, because, if he was being honest with himself, finding Lewis did not go the way he had thought it would. Just four months and a day ago Arthur would have told anyone who asked that his friend was out there, alive, probably confused, and just as memory deficit as he and Vivi. He would have ranted on for hours about what a gentle giant his friend is- _was_ -and how dorky Lewis could be. Now though…

Life in their shared second floor apartment was tense at best. The fact that the only thing standing between Arthur and _literal_ _death_ was Vivi was made very clear to him. Lewis made no effort to hide his loathing of Arthur, his desire to kill him, his lack of trust… And Arthur couldn’t blame him. His memories of That Night had been coming back to him in bits and pieces since the clusterfuck dubbed as The Truck Incident ( _Brilliant naming skills, Vivi_ ) and Arthur could remember enough to understand what happened. He killed Lewis. He could remember the feeling of losing control. Could remember watching his arm turn green and _move on its own_. He could remember the feel of Lewis’ back on his hand. He could remember crying and screaming and fighting with **It** , but it was pointless. He was too weak, too pathetic to stop anything. After each… encounter… with Lewis, he would spend the night staring at his metal appendage. He didn’t need anymore reminders of his failures. He didn’t need anymore burns…

So, not wanting to aggravate Lewis more than he already does, Arthur adopted a system. To make things easier for everyone, Arthur woke up at 4:00 AM every day, tip-toed through the living room, and left the apartment long before anyone had to even look at him. He had been doing this ever since Lewis came back, and he would do it for forever if he has to. Besides, he’s accustomed to not sleeping—at this point insomnia and anxiety were his best buds—and he wouldn’t dare complain. 

Lewis has gone through a lot and it’s all Arthur's fault. Isn’t it? The new nightmares he’s having, the _memories_ , are proof enough. Lewis doesn’t need to look his murderer in the face first thing in the morning on top of everything else. 

Unfortunately for his genius plan, months of sleepless nights and lackluster self-care don’t agree with the new program. Arthur’s eye bags have taken on a dark purple hue, contrasting starkly against unusually pale skin. His clothes, more often than not, are wrinkled and worn. And any unexpected noise has him startling like a newborn. Overall, he looks like an absolute mess, and the only reason his uncle lets him work in the shop at all is because the man knows that working with machinery eases his anxiety. 

Waist deep in the undercarriage of a shiny black Jeep, Arthur let out a tired sigh. Determinedly ignoring the brief flashes of purple in the corner of his vision, he tried to refocus on the Jeeps axel. Part of Lewis’ paranoia meant that he sent deadbeats to spy on him, but that’s okay. After the first few months he had accustomed himself to their presence. No, what had him on edge right now was—

“So what’s wrong with her?” Startled out of his self-deprecating thoughts, Arthur only just stopped himself from slamming his forehead against the Jeep’s underside. The object of his current discomfort sat feet away, watching him from one of those uncomfortably hard guest chairs Uncle Lance scattered about. It wasn’t unusual for a client to stay behind and wait for a diagnosis, but those clients were usually old not-wrestling buddies of Uncle Lance or at least a regular. This man was neither. 

First off, the client was parked outside of the shop when Arthur arrived. Arthur had been half asleep as he opened up shop and hadn’t noticed the man at all until a calloused hand landed on his shoulder. The scream he let out had been embarrassing, to say the least, but he felt it was deserved considering the time was 5:00 AM. As it were, the foreigner’s Jeep had broken down somewhere around midnight out on Tempo’s main road. He had never even heard of Kingsman Mechanics, but figured that pushing his car towards the nearest shop was better than sitting and waiting for a tow. The story made sense, but Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that it was incomplete, that something wasn’t right. Yet, the man hadn’t given away any indication of deceit. Maybe he was just being paranoid. The Lewis situation was getting to him and his nerves were overriding reality. He should ask Irene for sleeping pills. Mentally scolding himself, Arthur assumed responsibility over the man’s repairs, filled in the necessary paperwork, and got to work. Now, usually, this is when the client leaves for a while, goes out to eat or socialize, and then returns to a fixed car. Arthur gets a few hours of peaceful solitude and the client doesn’t suffer his awkward silence. It was currently 11:00 AM. The client has been staring at him for six _nerve wracking_ hours.

Rolling out from under the Jeep proper, Arthur took his first good look at the man. He hadn’t seen him very well in the morning, being that he was sleepy and it was dark, and afterwards he was much too embarrassed with himself to really look. The client was… attractive. Arthur first noted the man’s clothing, a light grey long sleeved Henley paired with black jeans and brown hiking boots. He was taller than Arthur, just enough to have him tilt his head upwards, skin slightly tanned, hands, as he knew from earlier, large and calloused, hair a mass of brown waves framing his face and jaw. He cautiously noted that the man was muscled, but not overly so. More like a panther, hidden strength revealed only when moving, _prowling_ . _A predator_ , his mind stuttered as a shiver moved down his spine. All together, the man was a sight to see, but what caught Arthur were his eyes. Those eyes which, now that Arthur was looking, shone a vibrant shade of green, boring into Arthur’s ambers with an intensity that made his breath catch and his body lock. They rang every alarm bell in Arthur’s system. _Run! Run! Run!_ echoed throughout his brain, but he _couldn’t move_ and _why couldn’t he move_. 

“Hello? Are you okay?” the client asked in a concerned tone ( _but something in those eyes… they looked_ **_smug_ **) and Arthur broke out of his trance.

Shaking himself out of his staring fit and nervously shifting his eyes away, Arthur finally processed the man's question. What had he been thinking about? His head hurt, so he must have had a flashback of some sort. The memories of That Night had been coming in at inconvenient times and they didn’t always stick as they should. But he could parse through that with Irene later. He had already embarrassed himself twice and he couldn’t afford to do it again. Kingsman Mechanics had a reputation to maintain after all, so, attractive ( _dangerous!runrunrun!_ ) or not, the man was a client, and Arthur was there to provide a service.

“Well, the good thing is that I recognize the issue. It’s very common with Jeeps, though the name’s a bit dramatic if you ask me. It’s called the Death Wobble and it happens when you drive too fast and hit a pothole or something. Did you happen to run over some debris on the way through?”

The client seemed to wince before scratching the back of his head and shyly looking away.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. I think I hit something near that tunnel down the road. You mentioned that was the good news though. What’s the bad news?” 

“The bad news is you need a replacement piece, the track bar. I just checked but we don’t seem to have it in stock,” which was weird because he could have sworn it was in the inventory three days ago, “I have a couple of contacts I could order the part from, but it would take at least a week for it to come in.” Track bars aren’t exactly exclusive to Jeeps. Maybe one of his co-workers needed it for a client? Arthur paused in his musings to take in the pensive look on his clients face. 

Despite his cowardly nature, Arthur is a very sympathetic being. He couldn’t leave the man stranded in unfamiliar land even if his brain was going haywire. Besides, he had to leave a good impression of Kingsman Mechanics for his uncle. Starting with willing his knees to _stop shaking_.

“I could help you get a room at the nearest hotel if you need? They owe my uncle a favor and I can have them reduce the rent for you Mr....?” 

“Huh? Oh, Morrison. James Morrison. Yes, thank you, that would be great…?”

“Arthur Kingsman, at your service. Out of curiosity, any reason why you would be passing through Tempo? I mean, no offense, but you don’t look like you’re from around here.” Arthur will be the first to admit that he isn’t very good at small talk, too self-conscious and shy, but he wanted to represent Kingsman Mechanics positively for his Uncle Lance. 

“None taken! I was on my way to my sister's house for a visit and I was hoping to get there early but...” The clie-Mr. Morrison looked downtrodden as he tapered off. He must have been looking forward to that visit. 

Feeling empathy, Arthur channeled all of the courage and professionalism within him and replied, “I understand. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience and I promise that we here at Kingsman Mechanics will do all that we can to expedite your repairs.” The client seemed to study Arthur acutely, an odd emotion in his eye that Arthur couldn’t name, and the silence stretched on a little too long. Just as Arthur was tensing to run, however, Mr. Morrison finally replied.

“Thank you.”

Arthur, relaxed again ( _He was overreacting. It was fine. Breath._ ), gave man a nod and a soft, tired smile before rolling back under the car. He assured himself that everything was fine, that the stress and lack of sleep was getting to him. He would call his therapist later in the day to discuss his anxiety and a possible pill schedule, but for now he immersed himself in the rhythmic klink of metal on metal. Thus, buried under the Jeep and mind far away, he was completely unaware of both the light blush taking over Mr. Morrison's face and the faint glint of green eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF. This was a hard one to actually post. I wanted to hold on to it and edit a bit more, but then I would never post it! I REALLY hope it's a good read! Anyways, fun fact!: Did you know that there are less than 20 Fernsby's alive today? I wanted to add that little tidbit to Irene's background as a hunters daughter, giving a twist to why there are only 20 left.


	3. A General Report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The line between perpetrator and victim is harder to draw when you have a foot in both camps.
> 
> Obsessions may wane and waver but never die.
> 
> The high ground is yours as long as you believe yourself justified.
> 
> Sometimes a loyal friend is the truest treasure of all.

On the other side of town a purple remnant, also known as a deadbeat, defied all laws of reason and opened a second story window. Cardamom, as she had been dubbed by her master, preferred this mode of entrance to all others, no matter how many times her fellows argued that gliding through walls was more efficient. She had been raised with _manners_. But that was neither here nor there. What was important was that her morning shift of Arthur Watching had ended just was unfruitfully as it had every other day of the week-which is to say it ended the same as it had for the past few months-and that she had arived to provide her daily report. 

Privately, Cardamom was beginning to think the orange one was innocent. Not that she would voice any of her suspicions to Master Lewis. It was just... she had been examining the boy closely since the day she was assigned to some months ago, and in that time she has yet to see him act out of anger or maliciousness. She had seen him work diligently on wheeled contraptions that hadn't existed in her breathing life. She had watched him smile softly at the stout, gruff man she came to learn was his uncle. She had even listened to him comfort a young girl who had lost her doll inside the shop before proceeding to spend his entire break aiding the young girl in her search for it.

The orange one was nervous, trembling and awkward most of the time, but he was not unkind. Surely this cowering ball of fluff, so like a calf she once raised on her father's farm, was incapable of harming another, much less of committing murder. 

Some part of her, the part that was fiercely loyal to her master, hissed and screamed that it was all a farce. She felt guilt for even doubting her master, who walked the earth distressed and angry and very clearly _dead_ , but couldn't help but think that some kind of misunderstanding had occured. But if it were, wouldn't the boy have revealed some part of himself? It had been months after all. 

All the same, she had a duty to her master above all else. 

"Report." Cardamom did so diligently, but absently. The orange one followed a schedule so routine all of the deadbeats could recite it by heart, could even imagine his movements as the day passed them by. It was depressing really. Such a life was unsustainable in the long run. He would wear himself our sooner or later, just like... The lack of variance was concerning to both Cardamom and her master, though for entirely different reasons.

Rather than reassure her master that the orange one had no schemes or ill intent in the making, the reports seemed to add fire to Master Lewis' temper. Literally. His blazing magenta hair grew in size and heat as he paced the floor, muttering a storm of conspiracies and speculations. Cardamom wondered when the last time he left the apartment was. 

"Are you sure there has been no change at all? No stupid stuttering plots? Nothing?!" Cardamom subtly glided out of her masters reach. She loved her master, truly, but in times like these she did not trust him. His anger tended to blind him to what was right in front of him.

"He served clients just as he has all this past week and was rather quiet throughout." No need to mention the new client, nor the mans peculiar interest in Arthur's person. Arthur appeared off-put by the mans attention, but he always looked that way so she couldn't discern anything particularly notable about it. After all, Cardamom hadn't had many friends in her living life. Perhaps the interaction was the makings of a fledgling friendship? The man seemed polite enough. She needn't mention the new client, she wasn't betraying her master, the client was of little import and the orange one was making friends. 

"Dismissed." Cardamom took her leave with an internal sigh of relief. 

* * *

The longer he spent outside of that dreaded cave the more he remembered his life before it. Which was helpful in some cases. His past experiences-coupled with disjointed memories pilfered from previous hosts-have helped him readjust to the outside world much quicker than he would have otherwise. However, it also meant that he remembered more of  _ her _ . Time in captivity had dulled his obsession marginally, reducing the all encompassing need to an annoying tug. Now, though, with newfound clarity brought about by freedom, the obsession came back with startling intensity. The flickering flame of longing returned to a blazing inferno. 

He had to have her. He  _ needed _ her. The only one to match him in intelligence and skill. The only one to get away. His witty golden witch. He was no fool. He knew that centuries had passed since she last lived, but all was not lost. She may be dead, but she wasn’t entirely gone. If Mordred could not have the vixen which entombed him then he would settle for her remarkably similar descendent. 

He looked like her. Mordred knew this in the cave, but he was distracted by other things then. Even so, outside of his misty prison, in the light of day and able to unabashedly stare from only feet away, this fact became blatantly obvious. He could remember the features of his little witch as clear as if his entrapment had happened yesterday.

Discounting the broad shoulders and the gender difference, the boy was unnervingly similar to her. The same bi-colored hair, the same pale smooth skin and heart-shaped eyebrows, the same slim waist and delicate wrists, the same shining amber eyes and bow shaped lips. He was beautiful. He was like her. He was her decendent.

It looks like there is going to be a change of plans.

* * *

He had a system. Every evening, like clockwork, a deadbeat would report from its shift of Arthur watch and inform him of his murderer's activity. Like all the reports since he arrived back in Tempo four months ago, there was no unusual behavior from the traitor and no obvious schemes or death plots, but he knew it was only a matter of time. 

Arthur was a master manipulator. After all, he did deceive Lewis for years before pushing him off the cliff. He was clearly jealous of Lewis, wanting Vivi for himself, and he tried to tell her that. But Vivi, and Mystery for that matter, wouldn’t listen to him. They stood firm in the belief that Arthur was possessed. That it wasn’t really him who killed Lewis, but a green demon. Which is preposterous. Is that the story Arthur told everyone? Where was this supposed demon they say possessed him? Arthur must have been lying, and he obviously had the rest fooled. 

Lewis would have killed the snivelling little murderer by now if it weren’t for them. Still, he wasn’t going to just let the man roam free. He was going to play nice and bide his time for Vivi. The monster would reveal his true self eventually, and when that day came Lewis would be there to put him down. For now, he would settle for sending deadbeats to spy on him. He had to protect Vivi. Vivi would understand. 

By the front door, shrouded in shadow, a kitsune in disguise let out a low, rueful sigh. 

* * *

Vivi is conflicted. For all that she insists on Arthur's innocence in front of Lewis, in private, she wasn’t actually sure of anything. All that Vivi remembered from That Day is finding Arthur at the top of the cave missing an arm and bleeding out, tying the stump with her scarf, and then rushing out to the nearest hospital. Now, however, she can remember entering the cave with two people—a friend and a lover. The memories that return to her are fuzzy, out of order, and incomplete. She remembers living two lives-one with Lewis Pepper and one without-and each battle for dominance within her mind. In short, Vivi can’t trust her own brain, and that scares her. 

The only one who remembers That Day in its entirety is Mystery, but she can’t bring herself to trust him either. How could she? He spent years lying to her, disguised as a dog, and now he expects her to just accept what he says? How could she bring herself to ever feel comfortable around him again? Mystery liked Arthur well enough, what if he was covering up for him?

At the same time though, she _knows_ Arthur. She knows that beneath his fear of all things supernatural, when the chips were down, Arthur would throw himself towards danger to help a friend. She knows that Arthur’s heart is way too big. She knows that Arthur doesn’t have it in him to kill. Damn it, she once watched him cry for ten minutes because he thought he stepped on a ladybug! She remembers going with him to a pet store and watching him adopt a disabled hamster, simply because the clerk stated it wouldn’t live! She remembers Arthur’s proud smile when the little thing not only lived, but thrived, running around with a brand new set of wheels. 

But most of all, she remembers the doggedness with which Arthur planned their road trip—the one to find Lewis. She remembers the desperation in his voice as he tried time and again to get her to remember a boy she couldn’t even name. She remembers the adoration and love in his eyes when he rambled about a tall boy she had no memory of. 

Vivi was amnesiac, not stupid. And so, she would continue to support Arthur’s innocence, even with her own mind in chaos, because there are certain things she  _ knows _ .   
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the long wait! Things have been a bit hectic with *waves in general direction* life. It figures that as soon as I graduate high school and get all amped to attend college the universe throws a pandemic our way. I had to scramble about to settle my online courses and handle my graduation stuff. At least it's summer now?
> 
> All aside, I tried to add an outsider's perspective-someone caught between both sides-but didn't want to go the typical Vivi route only. I also tried to provide some humanizing background to the deadbeats, but I'm unsure if I was successful or not. I hope you enjoy!


	4. It's Not Polite to Stare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's not polite to stare? 
> 
> Mr. Morrison must have missed that lesson because he wouldn't leave Arthur alone. Arthur? Arthur doesn't know how to handle that. 
> 
> Incidentally, neither does anyone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY!! College has been heaping the work on me and whenever I did have the free time I had none of the motivation to write. It's not the best of updates, but I've been getting so much encouragement in the comments I felt bad putting it off any longer! I hope it meets expectations, and if it doesn't constructive criticism is welcome. Remember to stay safe everyone and have a great day!

Arthur was having deja vu. Does it count as deja vu if the repeating events only happened yesterday? He's pretty sure it counts, so yes, he’s having deja vu. Arthur was used to the stares of the deadbeats. They were there all the time, whether he knew it or not, and he was _okay_ with that. He was dangerous, too weak to fight off a malicious spirit leading to the death of his best friend. Lewis was entitled to some form of security. If that security came at the expense of Arthur's privacy he was okay with that. 

He was used to the stares of the deadbeats because he’d had _practice_ ignoring their presence. This? This would kill him. No fiery purple wraith needed. Death by stare induced anxiety.

Much like the day before, Arthur woke up in the dark hours of the morning, pulled on a plain T-shirt and jeans, topped it off with his trusty puffy jacket, and tried not to make any noise on his way out of the apartment. Like the day before he ignored the purple blur that "snuck" its way into his van and started his morning commute. Like the day before he pulled up to the back of his uncle's shop, five am sharp and ready to get to work. _Unlike_ the day before, when Arthur made his way around to the front of Kingsman Mechanics he noticed the faint outline of someone waiting by the shop’s entrance. 

He froze. Uncle Lance slept in until around eight am, leaving Arthur alone in the mornings, so it couldn’t be him. Even if his uncle had decided to accompany him that morning Arthur was fairly sure it was not him. The figure standing in the shadow of the shop's entrance was tall, and Arthur’s uncle was, to put it nicely, a rather stout man. The shadow shifted. 

He was no stranger to hostile situations. When the Mystery Skulls were active he was more often than not the target of whatever crazy phenomena Vivi chose to investigate. So, creating an improvised weapon of the only thing on hand, his keys, Arthur approached the situation as he always did—with all the bravery of a trembling field mouse. It was almost nostalgic. There wasn't much cover in the desert surrounding Kingsman Mechanics, but by the way Arthur came and parked he was reasonably sure the stranger didn’t know he was there. Moderately sure. Somewhat hesitantly sure. 

The stranger's back was turned towards him. Arthur knew he was strong, consequences of his work, but judging by the size of the stranger they were no pushover either. His best chance at not getting overwhelmed was the element of surprise. As silently as he could, Arthur wove the keys between his fingers and moved. Except, with each step forward the shape of the stranger became more and more familiar. If Arthur didn’t distinctly remember telling the man his jeep would not be finished for a week he would guess it was-

“Mr. Morrison?” Sure enough, as the sun crested the horizon like some cliche anime scene, bathing Kingsman Mechanics and the surrounding desert in the golden hues of early morning, and revealed the last person Arthur expected to encounter that day. He looked the same as he did the day before, brown curls mussed artfully, plain henley pulled taunt against his torso, dark jeans, and brown hiking boots laced tightly. The buttery black leather jacket he wore was new, probably worn to combat the cold that lingered until about six. Arthur figured simply he missed it on Mr. Morrison’s last visit. 

Arthur would have expected Mr. Morrison to explore the town, maybe visit the local tourist attractions, especially considering the circumstances of his repair, but there he was, leaning just to the left of the door Arthur was supposed to be opening, looking for all the world like he owned that wall (And Arthur had insider knowledge that he did not, in fact, own it). At the sound of his name, Mr. Morrison turned and locked eyes with him. Golden amber to green. For just a moment, Arthur thought those eyes were wrong, a different shade from the day before, but then he blinked and they were the same as he remembered. No glow in sight. 

Easing his defensive stance, but not completely lowering the keys, Arthur rubbed at his temples with his free hand. His flashbacks were multiplying. They usually came late at night, plaguing him with terrible migraines and nightmares in turn, and ruining his already shoddy sleep schedule. He’d only complained about them to Irene though—the only person he could admit his troubles to in full. Don’t get him wrong, his uncle was great, but if Lance heard about his headaches he’d be on bed rest faster than he could say ‘I’m fine’. He couldn’t afford it, needed the work, the distraction that came with work or he’d crumple under his thoughts. There was Vivi, but he didn’t want to burden her with his problems, and Lewis was… Lewis wasn’t an option. So Irene was the only one who knew and that was fine. Advil had been working for him just fine, he could deal with it on his own. If they started affecting his work hours though, he might need to accept Irene’s offer of a stronger prescription.

Before he could dwell on the idea of rescheduling an appointment with his therapist Arthur was startled out of his thoughts by a steaming cup of coffee shoved into his field of vision. There was a hand connected to that coffee. 

“Please, call me James. I’m not much older than you, so I don’t really deserve the honorifics.” Arthur didn’t move. Too stunned and confused to do so. Mr. Morrison must have woken up earlier than he did in order to look so awake and put together. And all for what? To beat Arthur to work and offer him a coffee? This man either had nothing better to do—which was likely being that he was new in town—or he was trying to poison him. The latter really wouldn't surprise Arthur. The image of Lewis wearing a dark hoodie and surfing the dark web for local hitmen punched an awkward chuckle out of him. Judging by the wide smile and the coffee the man was _still_ holding out for him, though, Arthur leaned towards the former. 

“You are still a client, Mr. Morrison, and we don’t know each other very well, so I’m afraid I will have to decline.” Polite but distancing. Thank God for Uncle Lance and his lessons in public relations. Arthur wouldn't be winning any social awards, but he could work retail. 

“I suppose we’ll just have to get to know each other then!” Mr. Morrison returned brightly. By now he must have noticed the key-knives hung at Arthur’s side and surmised what it had almost been used for, but for all that it was obvious Mr. Morrison gave no outward signs of being concerned. Rather, he seemed vaguely approving. 

Blinking in wonder at the sheer oddity energy Mr. Morrison wore so early in the morning ( _Reminded him of a certain blueberry_ ), Arthur could only thank him for the coffee—it would be rude not to take it—and began unlocking the shop. He would have to figure out how to discreetly dump the coffee once Mr. Morrison was distracted. You could never be too cautious.

And that was how Arthur found himself there, hours later, sweating bullets and swearing up and down that this was the way he would die. Different undercarriage, different car problem, same unsettling stranger-turned-client staring him down from the same uncomfortable plastic chair.

Arthur was pretty sure Uncle Lance had installed those particular chairs with the express purpose of dissuading clients from overstaying their welcome. He knew Arthur struggled with anxiety and socializing with strangers only heightened it. Arthur preferred to work in solitude or with a few trusted co-workers, maybe some background music, and so his uncle took every measure to ensure he never felt uncomfortable in the garage. Though, if asked Uncle Lance wouldn’t admit to it. His uncle had an image to upkeep among his not-wrestling buddies. If pressured, he'd simply grumble about making his own choices for his own reasons. Arthur wouldn't have it any other way. 

That being said, Arthur _knew_ with absolute certainty that Mr. Morrison must be feeling numb from the waist down. Because he hadn't moved from his seat by Arthur's workstation. At all. In _two hours_.

Arthur was used to the stare of deadbeats. Sure, at first it was disconcerting, being watched at all hours of the day by the minions of a man who wanted him dead, of course. After a few weeks, however, the weight of their presence changed, transforming into something of a reassurance that he was not alone. Lewis hated him and Vivi spent most of her time with Lewis once he’d been found, too busy with her own problems to waste time with Arthur. He understood, really he did. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling lonely though. So, despite knowing the deadbeats were there on behalf of Lewis, he took some comfort in their constant presence. At the very least, he could say that the deadbeats would protect him—if only so their master could finish him off—and wasn’t that messed up? He felt more comfortable with a definite threat than under the scrutiny of a harmless stranger. Bad vibes didn’t count as a definite threat. 

Still, this? This was something else. If being glared at by Lewis felt like standing in the middle of a raging inferno, Mr. Morrisons’ gaze was like looking into the dark and knowing something was staring back at you. Unsettling and inevitable. He wasn't even sure if Mr. Morrison had blinked in all the time he'd been seated beside him. Was he closer? Arthur thought he might have shifted closer. If he moved his foot slightly to the side they'd be touching and Arthur was sure that wasn't so ten minutes ago. 

He was overreacting. Mr. Morrison hadn’t even done anything, just sat and stared a bit. Silently. Without so much as shifting in his seat. He was so talkative the day before, why God did he choose to be silent now? Hadn't he mentioned getting to know each other? Arthur hated small talk but he would give anything for something to break the silence right now. The clinking of metal on metal wasn’t nearly enough. If anything it made the silence more oppressive than ever. He couldn’t even put music on, as that would mean getting up and _actually moving across the garage while Mr. Morrison stared at him_ and no thank you, he’ll just stay under the car. At least then there was a layer of protection between Arthur and Mr. Morrison's direct gaze. 

He just needed to focus on the repair job. A worn-out shock absorber and some loose exhaust system brackets. Kind old Mrs. Herrera had nearly gotten into an accident on her morning commute when her car unexpectedly jerked to the side. She brought it to the shop ten minutes after opening, just as Arthur realized Mr. Morrison had no plan of leaving, filled out the necessary paperwork and left in an Uber like a decent human being. 

It was familiar work. Comfortable. A regular day at the shop. Ignore the weight of green _(Why was he stuck on that?)_ eyes on his person. Mrs. Herrera had a simple car problem with a simple fix. A problem she hadn't noticed until that morning because it lay in a less visible area of the car. Out of sight out of mind, after all, just as he wished to be at that very moment. Please oh please someone save him. _Anyone!_

For the first time in his life, the universe heard Arthur’s plea and didn’t immediately spit on it. He almost cried at the sound of electronic bells, a system he installed to indicate someone new had entered the shop. He schooled his face into smooth professionalism, holding back in view of Mr. Morrison, but only just. Unsettling as Mr. Morrison’s stay had been, Arthur was working the shop by himself that day and needed to keep up professionalism. It wouldn’t do to get a bad review because he was too socially inept to handle an odd customer. If Arthur walked to the teller station faster than usual, well that was nobody's business but his own. 

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Arthur snagged a rag off the counter and wiped his hands of engine grease. There was a particularly stubborn spot of grime between the joints of his prosthetic so he wasn’t really looking when he began the customary welcome speech, "Hello and welcome to Kingsman Mechanics. No vehicle is beyond our repair, if you've got a problem we've got the mechanic, how may I he-Vivi?" 

He’d admitted defeat to the stubborn grease spot and lifted his gaze to his unwitting savior who, funnily enough, happened to be the same woman as always. Dressed in her usual blue ensemble, Vivi looked right at home among the tires and technical magazines, Mystery at her side. Which made sense, he mused, as they spent a lot of time studying and hanging out in that very lobby back when… Arthur refocused on the present. Vivi had moved from the middle of the lobby to the counter, propped her elbow on its edge, her head falling to rest on her closed fist. It was very casual, languid even. Suspicious. She smiled. 

"Hey Artie! How ya doing?"

Arthur was happy to see her, of course, but if his calendar was to be trusted, and it hadn’t yet, it was a Tuesday. Tuesdays were Vivi and Lewis days. It was the only day of the week Vivi didn't have work or class all day. The duo often took advantage of Tuesdays, taking the time to reconnect by having little dates in the apartment living room. Mystery would give the two some room and Arthur knew to stay out the whole day, even spending the night at Uncle Lance's sometimes in order not to ruin the day for them. From what Vivi sporadically texts him, Lewis was an entirely different person when he left. Arthur tried not to dwell on that. All things considered, Arthur was rather confused as to why Vivi stood smiling at him from across the counter instead of cuddled up to her boyfriend in their apartment. 

Then it struck him. He knew that smile. It was apologetic smile number thirteen, wide but slightly strained at the corners, like she was barely keeping it from wobbling. The last time Vivi gave him that smile had been when she had tried to explain that Lewis didn’t hate him— _a lie_ —but that he needed space. It was the guilty smile. There was only one thing Vivi would feel guilty about on a Tuesday while standing in front of him.

Sure enough, Arthur drifted his gaze just slightly to the right. In the months spent back together, Vivi and Lewis worked tirelessly on Lewis' human guise. Staying in that state required focus and calm, they’d found, which was difficult for a ghost of Lewis’ kind. When they had started Lewis could only hold human form for a maximum of two minutes. Now he stood before Arthur, all six feet of him, walking and breathing as though it were second nature and not something he’d had to relearn. With Vivi’s help, Lewis learned to hold his form for upwards of three hours. Arthur wanted to say he was proud of him. He kept his mouth shut. 

The only thing Lewis hadn't mastered was the eyes. Despite his best efforts and Vivi's extensive research, Lewis hadn't been able to change his eyes from their spectral black sclera and glowing purple iris to their former white and soft purple. Undaunted, Vivi, ever the clever one, had supplied Lewis with a pair of dark shades he would wear so they could enjoy the outdoors. 

Which the two decided to do. On a Tuesday. At his _job_. Out of the frying pan and into the flames.

Arthur was suddenly less thankful that the universe answered his plea. The air was thick, tinged with Arthur's growing anxiety, the sound of Vivi's shuffling feet, Mystery’s attentive stare, and Lewis' simmering distaste. Arthur wanted to say something, anything to cleave the strained atmosphere, but his vocal cords wouldn't work. His airways had closed up and when he tried all that escaped him was a choked off whine. 

Even hidden away by dark sunglasses, Arthur could feel the stifling heat of Lewis' glare. Nobody moved. Arthur was beginning to wonder why they stopped by. Surely there was a reason he was being subjected to this awful moment in time? He loved his friends, even if they didn't love him, but he really wanted to know what they wanted so he could send them on their merry way. 

Lewis' glare intensified if that were possible, burning at some new slight Arthur must have inflicted through his continued failure to speak. Vivi was already moving to intervene, to stop a potential homicide. Arthur could feel Mystery gathering his weird kitsune magic as well as hear the clicking of his nails as he took what Arthur presumed was a bracing step forwards. A hand fell on Arthur's shoulder. 

The small shriek he released was... less than ideal, but nothing any of the rooms other occupants hadn’t already heard. 

"Ah, you must be Arthur's friends! Nice to meet you, my name is James!" The hand on his person turned into an arm across his shoulders as Mr. Morrison interjected himself between them. It was heavy. 

Arthur would admit to being a bit touch starved. No one had offered him any meaningful contact since The Truck Incident and Lewis’ subsequent return to their lives, and he was too guilty to ask anyone for it, so yeah he was touch starved. That didn’t mean he liked being touched. 

In fact, there was nothing he wanted more at that moment than to dip away from the stifling band of Mr. Morrison’s hold, but when he shifted even slightly to do so Mr. Morrison’s grip on him tightened. Arthur looked up to Mr. Morrison and noted the extra edge to his smile. It was predatory, an animal baring its teeth in warning at an invading competitor. It was uncomfortable and terrifying and he was going to start freaking out if Mr. Morrison didn’t let go soon, professionalism be damned. 

There he stood in the early stages of hyperventilation, absolutely helpless and in the center of it all. Lewis’ glare hadn’t changed but his brows were furrowed and his hair looked whispier, more flame-like, Vivi still had her guilty face on but was obviously off-put by the unexpected arrival of Mr. Morrison, and Mystery? Mystery was growling. A full body growl that threw Arthur back into a memory he really did not want to relive in the middle of his uncle's lobby. Memories of blood and confusion and _pain_.

It was then that his uncle walked into the lobby. 

Despite having his own perfectly fine bed in the house portion of the shop, Uncle Lance slept away most nights in his cramped office, leaning back in his chair with his feet kicked up on his desk. Arthur was convinced it was bad for him to be sleeping like that at his age, but anytime he brought up his uncle’s health he was met with a raised eyebrow, which, fair. Arthur wasn't exactly known for self-care and all that. 

Three seconds. Three seconds for his uncle to freeze at the threshold between lobby and office. Three seconds for him to take in the scene, eyes flying from Mystery, crouched and growling, to Lewis’ fiery glare, and to Mr. Morrison with his sharp smile before finally resting on Arthur’s clearly panicked expression. Lance's eyes slowly slid to the back of his office. All was still. 

Arthur knew what his uncle was thinking. The man kept a shotgun on hooks above his office chair. A very well kept shotgun he last used in the midst of The Truck Incident. He wasn’t sure who his uncle would shoot even if he did manage to get to the gun and back, but he was sure that bringing a gun into this situation would only make things worse. The look in Uncle Lance's eyes told Arthur he was aware of that. The twitch of his fingers told Arthur he was still considering it.

This was it, wasn’t it? This was Arthur’s cosmic payment for being too weak to fight off a malicious spirit. For pushing his friend to his death and cursing Vivi to a scrambled memory. He was stuck under the painful hold of a man he’d met just the day before, standing in front of his former friend who wanted to murder him, and caught between his uncle who kept eyeing his office door, Vivi, and an all but transformed Mystery.

He deserved this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just leave this on a nice little cliff hanger. Again, thank you guys so so much for all your kindness! I might not be able to give consistent updates (life is truly a terrible fiend conspiring to keep me from writing) but I don't want to give up on my fanfics. Please have patience with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I would really like some constructive criticism! I wish to become a better writer over time, so I've got to practice, but I have trouble noticing errors in my drafts.


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